


Tangential Possibilities

by svegliatevi



Category: Dune - All Media Types, Dune Series - Frank Herbert
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svegliatevi/pseuds/svegliatevi
Summary: Feyd-Rautha, still an infant, had not yet learned contempt. He would learn it soon enough, Piter knew, and that was to the child's benefit. On Giedi Prime, it was necessary to learn hatred and scorn in order to survive.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Tangential Possibilities

**Author's Note:**

> Piter takes a few minutes out of his day to really contemplate the pros and cons of infanticide.
> 
> He's an unbelievably horrible babysitter, and nobody's about to give him a #1 Dad mug this weekend — but compared to Harkonnen, Piter isn't the worst pseudo-paternal figure in Feyd's life. No wonder Feyd turned out... like that.

A number of the rings that glittered on the Baron’s fingers were ostentatious by design. He seldom removed them, and so they were chosen carefully: ancient, faceted sapphires mined from a long-dead planet, diamond-studded alloys, engraved and gilded bands — and each of them worth a fortune.

Piter was no appraiser of jewels, but he was privy to House Harkonnen’s expenses at their most granular, and he knew that the Baron’s collection of jewelry alone was worth more than the value of a human life on many planets.

And yet, Harkonnen still lacked the bauble he most desired: the ducal signet of the House Atreides, that eyesore that had lingered always on the Duke Leto’s finger since the Old Duke's amusing demise. 

The signet was an object of utility. It was not beautiful in the same way that Harkonnen’s finery was, and it was all the more offensive to the eye for what it represented. 

That Atreides bravado, that smug austerity — though Harkonnen despised it all, Piter suspected that the Baron would have worn the ring gladly, if only it were sized to fit his finger.

It would, Piter knew, fit his own well enough. He could envision it: the chill of the metal, its weight, its meaning. And he could envision the Duke’s hand without it: a band of pallor amid the olive tone of his skin — an absence, a privation. The thought sent a frisson of transgressive satisfaction through Piter’s mind, Mentat synapses flickering. 

But Piter knew that he would never wear that ring. It would never be allowed to fall into his grasp. Nor, he suspected, would the good, dear Duke — and that, to be sure, was a shame.

Piter understood his place; it would likely never be left to him to spill that man’s blood, to end his life, to claim his death. If the Baron arranged for such a thing, it would merely be a gruesome farewell gift: one final indulgence for his Mentat, one last assassination. It was not an act to be lauded or forgiven, no matter the rancor the Baron held for the Duke. The consequences would fall upon Piter alone, his guilt undeniable to any Truthsayer, and execution would follow swiftly. No matter how Piter wanted the Duke to bleed — no matter how he wished to be the cause of it — he was in full possession of his faculties. He knew better.

His musings on the matter were no more than a covetous flight of fancy, far too undignified to admit to. It was beneath him as a Mentat to expend energy considering such frivolities. And yet — from time to time, he did indulge in tangential thoughts of the Duke. Of his death. Of his insipid jewelry.

Piter did not wear jewelry at all. He adorned himself instead with other gleaming metals — hidden daggers that fit snug against his body, ready to be drawn at any moment. He required his hands to be unencumbered, his fingers able to maneuver deftly at a moment’s notice.

The Baron had no such compunctions. He wore his finery and ornaments as though they were armor, as though they were as necessary as his suspensors.

Having been summoned to the Baron's conference room to discuss the status of certain operations on Arrakis, Piter was in the very midst of a computation when the Baron raised a jewel-studded hand to silence him.

"I can suffer this dreadful noise no longer, Piter,” he boomed, lifting the same hand to rest at his temple. Faceted gems glittered under the light of the glowglobes. “Relieve me of it, if you would."

It was a most unwelcome interruption, but then, so were many of Harkonnen’s interjections. In a rare turn of events, however, his displeasure was not directed at Piter — a phenomenon to which Piter, as a seasoned curator of dreadful noise, found himself quite unaccustomed. 

But House Harkonnen had acquired a new source of noise within the last standard year. For the moment, it was on display in the Baron’s office, and had resumed its usual trend of emitting piercing shrieks according to its unintelligible whims. It had no other functions, save for those of an unpleasant bodily nature.

Piter had endeavored to ignore the infant, but it was becoming impossible. The child thrashed and wailed in a bassinet positioned beside the Baron's immense desk. To find such an out-of-place item in the Baron Harkonnen's forbidding conference room still had not lost its pinprick of incongruous humor. It was such an absurd prospect that Piter had jeered about it several months prior, upon first learning that Harkonnen's hated demi-brother had sired another child. Even the Baron himself had chuckled. But the jape had become reality, defying all expectation, and was no longer quite as humorous.

The Baron fretted about the child, in his way; he had troubled himself to adopt the boy, seeking a superior heir to Rabban, and would not countenance the notion of squandering the opportunity. Piter found it tiresome beyond reckoning. He knew that his master despised and distrusted the feminine aspect as a rule; he did not like to leave the little one in the company of strangers for too long, even the child's small corps of hired wetnurses. A guard was always stationed nearby, although it was the Baron himself who ought to have been monitored in the presence of the child. When the occasional whim struck him, Harkonnen took it upon himself to watch over the baby, but the moment Feyd-Rautha began to cry or emit a foul odor, he lost interest.

"Piter!" The Baron snapped, glaring from beneath the vast hand that shielded his brow. "I asked something of you!"

"My lord Baron," Piter began, voice pitched low and deferential, the better to segue into a bout of obsequious protest, "I am not the child's keeper. And it was not I," he added, raising his voice to be heard above the baby’s shrill cry, “who brought him into my lord’s office as though he belongs here. My lord may recall that I was not in favor of the notion—”

Harkonnen glanced up at Piter coldly, spider-black eyes falling on him with purest contempt. The dreadful crying had imperiled his already fraying patience. At length, he cleared his throat. “I won’t repeat myself, Piter. Take him away.” 

Unceremoniously, he lifted the child out of the bassinet and thrust him out over the desk like a parcel for Piter to accept.

For a moment, Piter entertained — in his split-second Mentat way, merely considering one among numerous possibilities — protesting further. He hated to be interrupted. He considered demanding to know what punishment he would face if he would not relegate himself to such a demeaning task. He considered questioning whether it would not be simpler to summon a dedicated minder for the child instead. He considered it, and thought better of it immediately. 

It was not befitting of a Mentat — even a twisted one — to dwell on inconsequential, petty possibilities. To do so polluted one’s mind, and his mind was better preserved for other tasks.

What was more, the silence that would occur in the moments spent awaiting a servant would be interminable. When silence came on abruptly between the Baron and his Mentat, it tended to overstay its welcome until it had congealed and solidified into a hateful void. There was often no recovering a discussion after it had rotted so. Even if Feyd-Rautha continued to cry, that tense, wordless disdain would linger like poison.

Piter rolled his eyes; whiteless as they were, it was a nigh-imperceptible gesture. Though Piter knew that the Baron would not strike him for his impudence, or even have him struck, Piter also knew that he was obliged to swallow his pride from time to time for the greater benefit of his dignity later. He knew that every argument was carefully recorded in Harkonnen’s mind. His meager ability to compute and analyze data was put to use for the purpose of creating a dossier of grievances. He cataloged every slight: when Piter was defiant, when he was defensive, when he was insubordinate. One day, such slights would grow too numerous; Piter would become unfit and warrant disposal.

Piter did not wish to invite such a fate too soon. He yet had much to do.

He saved his most ardent refusal for things which truly mattered, reserved instead for those fouler indignities which he was truly determined not to suffer.

This one inconvenience, he could bear, albeit scornfully.

And on this one matter, Piter did find himself wholly agreeing with the Baron: the screeching had become intolerable. 

Feyd-Rautha was fast gaining on his first year of life, and had already proven to be an unpleasant creature. He squirmed in the Baron’s grasp, eyes squeezed shut as he loosed another scream of agitation. Piter accepted the burden, supporting the awkward weight of the baby’s head in the crook of his arm.

“We will resume our discussion later,” the Baron said, “when this headache of mine has abated.” He glanced up at Piter. “Do not take it upon yourself to cause me another such malady when we reconvene, if you please, Piter.”

Piter smiled a pinched, wincing smile. “Oh, I would not dream of it.”

He did not wait for the Baron to dismiss him formally. With the infant squirming in his grasp, he left the room and stalked out into the hallway, seeking a wetnurse or a servant capable of summoning one. The door fell shut behind him, startling Feyd-Rautha into another bout of squalling displeasure.

Piter loathed children. He had been one, long, long ago, and loathed that experience as well.

He did not like defenseless things, needy things. He did not like loud and pungent creatures that lived to trouble him with their demands — and so it stood to reason that he did not care for any Harkonnen, regardless of maturity. His carapace-hard heart had no softness in it for any adult, and it spared absolutely none for children — even and especially those so cherubic as Feyd-Rautha. 

At banquets and dinner parties and other such affairs, Piter had endured no small amount of crooning and fussing about the child. A gaggle of varied sycophants alleged that the boy was particularly darling, but Piter did not understand the fascination. What he considered precious was rather more unconventional: protein chains, small venomous creatures pinned to a specimen board, and the like. Few shared his enthusiasm for such things, finding his interests as unappealing as he found theirs.

He had not expected his tenure as the Mentat of House Harkonnen to involve nannying. At many junctures, he had reminded his master that he preferred not to waste his time with the child until it had grown mature enough to properly receive his mentorship.

True, Mentats serving houses with heirs were expected to function in a pedagogical role. Such duties came as no surprise to Piter, whose exhaustive — though unorthodox — training had prepared him to anticipate every demand a house might make of its lifelong Mentat advisor. He was prepared to serve as a complement to the tutors the Baron would hire when Feyd-Rautha reached schooling age. He would see to it that the boy became literate and well-versed in numbers, and one day would be responsible for his political education — and his understanding of death.

But Piter had not foreseen such a task as pacifying a crying baby. Considering the Baron's tastes, it had seemed unlikely — no more than another meritless, improbable tangent. And Piter had considered such an act so beneath him that he had failed to entertain the notion that Harkonnen would ever think to ask it of him. 

He wondered if it was becoming a form of sport to the Baron — creating these small, allowable ways of discomfiting him. It made him resent the child all the more.

At last, Piter located a page roaming the hallway, who came to a halt before him in startled submission. “Sir!” the page chirped, clearing his throat. Piter watched the boy steal a glance up at him, no doubt assuming he had done so subtly; many new servants did the same, disturbed by the unnatural blue-in-blue of his eyes. 

Such people would never have the privilege — or misfortune — of meeting a Guild agent or a native of Arrakis. Piter was their only opportunity to see such alien eyes in the flesh. He did not mind if it frightened them or disgusted them; indeed, it was all the better.

“Have a caretaker summoned immediately,” Piter ordered. “I shall wait no longer than ten minutes.”

Harkonnen servants knew that it was unwise to defy the time limits set by Piter de Vries. He had demonstrated why on more than one occasion.

The page declared his assent, voice cracking, and scurried away as Piter turned to face the courtyard window. Feyd-Rautha struggled in his arms, letting out a short series of hiccupping cries, but Piter could not identify the source of his unhappiness. Likely as not, he was merely hungry, a need which Piter could not meet and did not desire to.

In defeated resignation, he supported Feyd-Rautha to the best of his ability, disliking the way his little red face crumpled with nameless displeasure, loathing the small pudgy hands that waved and twitched before him. He noted the limpness of the infant’s neck, the fragility of his skull. Such a frail creature, so incapable of communicating its needs.

Infants could scarcely differentiate pain from hunger or thirst or exhaustion. Piter considered giving Feyd-Rautha an early education in pain, that he would be able to correctly identify it later in life.

For a long moment, he stared at Feyd-Rautha before taking his tiny earlobe between his fingertips and applying pressure, turning his nails inward until they began to bite at the flesh. Feyd squirmed, vocalizing in vague discomfort. One of his small hands reached for Piter's. By degrees, almost without thinking, Piter continued to pinch him, watching his response. 

When it became painful, Feyd let out a wail, eyes watering. The application of sharp pressure was not enough to bruise or draw blood, but Piter restrained himself nevertheless, feeling sudden wrath bubbling up in him at the wretched peal of noise. “Indeed!" he hissed, withdrawing his hand. “Something to cry about.”

An unprecedented thing happened, then: Feyd-Rautha fell silent.

Feyd looked at Piter, as if comprehending him suddenly. He peered up into Piter’s whiteless eyes as few others ever dared to, unaffected by their strangeness, ignorant and uncaring. He looked at him closely, yet without judgment — even for the man who had taken it upon himself to introduce Feyd to pain. 

Uncertain of how to ensure Feyd-Rautha’s continued silence without employing lethal measures, Piter touched the child’s forehead, smoothing back the curling dark hair that had grown to cover his head. Feyd tossed his head, as if aware that it was Piter’s touch that hurt him only moments prior, but still he did not cry or babble or shriek. 

Again, he reached for Piter's hand, as if fascinated by it. Piter could not understand why Feyd did not seem afraid of him, even having suffered at his hand — the selfsame hand Feyd still sought to wrap his tiny fingers around.

Piter did not regret his cruelty, though he understood it as a momentary lapse, a product of unseemly frustration. It could not happen again, lest Feyd-Rautha remember it and hold the abuse against him. Piter could not grant him such an advantage.

With slow, methodical movements, Piter swiped a tear from beneath Feyd’s eye with his thumb. His fingers were calloused from years of wielding blades, his palms worn and roughened from years of working with chemicals and poisons, but his cruel hands could mimic gentleness when the situation demanded it — though it almost never did. It felt like a grotesque facade. He did not want to be the child's keeper.

Feyd-Rautha continued to watch him, observing him with an unguarded stare unlike any Piter had found himself encountering otherwise. And yet — there was an unpleasant familiarity to him. 

Piter still saw much of the Baron in Feyd-Rautha, and much of Rabban as well. He had their eyes.

Piter stared down at the restless infant squirming in the crook of his arm. It observed him in turn, its eyes dark and alert, mirroring the contemptuous, spider-black gaze of its paternal line, and smiled. 

It would take no effort at all to end such a vulnerable creature’s existence. Piter chuckled at the very idea. 

He caught the flicker of his reflection in the dusk-dimmed window before him: a dark-haired man with a dark-haired child in his arms, each smiling at the other for a fleeting moment. A hapless onlooker might have thought the pair father and son.

Piter found that thought less amusing.

The baby’s eyes were so large and so fragile, still looking at him. The faintest pressure, and they would rupture. The Harkonnen bloodline was so plain even in his infancy, so obvious that the thought of plucking the resemblance out of his very head struck Piter as droll, in a certain way. It would have been no challenge to remove the beady, dark gaze, the scrutiny, the thinly veiled contempt —

But such features were still absent in that face, or mostly so. Feyd-Rautha had not yet learned contempt. 

He would learn it soon enough, Piter knew, and that was to the child's benefit. On Giedi Prime, it was necessary to learn hatred and scorn in order to survive.

And it was necessary that the child survived. It would be so simple to do away with him — his skull was still soft, his neck weak and pliant. It would be no great task for an adult to strangle him, or twist his neck until it snapped. Even simpler — to allow Rabban to drop him in oafish clumsiness, or to frame one of the guards for an unfortunate loss. It would be simple — but it would be foolish. Piter understood that it was no more than another tangent brought about by his own vexation. Indignant though he remained, he could not allow emotion to cloud reason. He had greater discipline than that.

For House Harkonnen needed a serviceable successor. Feyd-Rautha was its final opportunity.

Rapid footsteps alerted Piter to the approach of the caretaker he had requested, and a wetnurse soon emerged, rushing down the hall as quickly as propriety would allow. She curtsied and hailed Piter without meeting his eyes, awaiting his acknowledgement.

One of the few women whose presence the Baron temporarily tolerated within the Keep, she existed in a constant state of uncertainty and terror. If she served her purpose, she would likely be allowed to live, to leave the Keep and return to her life of abject poverty outside its walls. If she did not, her misery could only deepen.

Piter held Feyd-Rautha at arm's length for the woman to receive, saying nothing, fixing her with his bleak, unreadable stare.

"Beg pardon," she breathed, apologizing for her proximity as she accepted the child. Holding him close, she took a conscientious pace backward. "Thank you, sir." 

Feyd, too, made a small, guttural noise of satisfaction. 

Piter did not excuse the woman or acknowledge her gratitude. “Attend to him," he ordered, and turned to take his leave.

He said nothing further, noting only that she accepted her burden with appropriate haste and deference. He made a note not to have her obliterated thoughtlessly. Someone, after all, had to be tasked with caring for the babe — and none among the Harkonnen family could, himself included. 

They did not care for him beyond the prospects he could provide once he aged: as heir, as Baron, as collateral. Feyd-Rautha's role had been decided before he was ever born.

As he watched the woman whisk Feyd-Rautha away, Piter knew that he could not allow the child to come to harm. Not because he valued Feyd-Rautha's life — but because he valued his own. He felt no loyalty; merely obligation.

He could not help but wonder: when would Feyd-Rautha learn to oppose him? To plot against him? To denigrate him? How soon would he cease to consider him human?

Would it come to the boy as instinct, or would he learn it from his uncle?

Before long, his innocence would be replaced by contempt, overwritten by the disposition he would require for his survival. And Piter would be obliged to watch him grow, to tutor him, to train him — making Feyd’s life easier, only for the boy to make Piter's life harder, as all Harkonnens did.

He questioned whether Feyd-Rautha would be worth his time, though he knew it did not matter; his time was to be squandered on him regardless. Piter's time had already been sold: every second, every minute, every hour, every year. It all belonged to House Harkonnen.

As a Mentat, he knew that the boy would one day betray him. It was not a question of "if," but of "when" — and indeed "how." It was in the child's nature — and the importance of such acts would be impressed upon him before long, by Piter himself. 

Piter considered the matter further. The ordinary pupil would not eclipse the Mentat teacher; Piter would not allow it. His upper hand would be maintained, so long as he became the guardian of the boy's knowledge. He would not teach Feyd-Rautha how to subjugate him.

It was possible that he could raise Feyd-Rautha to consider him an invaluable retainer, even to trust him, but he could not pretend to care for the child. The very idea disturbed him.

Piter withdrew to his laboratory, where his only beloved things resided: his carefully-managed experiments, his nameless compounds, his developing poisons. One day, he would be survived only by his reputation and his innovations. And one day long after, even his reputation would wither; no one would live who recalled his memory by name. But his innovations would survive, if he established them well. 

He hoped to kill through them even after his death. It did not matter who died, or whether he was remembered — only that his poisons lived.

Piter looked upon his works and knew that other obligations would force him to neglect them. He would soon be compelled to bargain for his time, to convince the Baron of the necessity of the hours whiled away in solitude within his laboratory. He understood this, and at length, accepted it. It was an inconvenience, but there was little he could not bend to his advantage with the appropriate Mentat maneuvering.

And so, he resigned himself to the thankless role of a pedagogue. It was one of many he could play. 

He was the twisted savant, the skilled assassin, the reviled torturer, the expert poisoner, the worthless addict, the priceless Mentat. He was a man who had learned of goodness and found it lacking; he had been conditioned to question it, to spurn it. 

As a teacher, he would impart the same lessons. He would train the boy, as was his duty.

Feyd-Rautha would have to learn that Piter was not his ally — but as he grew, he would surely discover that the Baron was his enemy.


End file.
